Unfaithful
by Blackcurrant Bonbons
Summary: John must choose one of the Holmes brothers, but will it be Sherlock or Mycroft? Mycroft/John Sherlock/John One heart must be broken.
1. The Feud Begins

**Unfaithful**

'_**And I know that he knows I'm unfaithful**__**  
**__**and it kills him inside**__**  
**__**to know that I am happy with some other guy**__**  
**__**I can see him dying' Rihanna**_

_**This chapter is dedicated to the lovely PrincessNala, who beta read this for me and had to put with my goldfish stupidity! Thank you! Enjoy!**_

_**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, unfortunately. No copyright intended and no profits made. **_

**Unfaithful**

John sighed knowingly as he saw the familiar black Mercedes pull up outside the entrance of 221b Baker Street. Sherlock would not be happy, but he never was when it concerned Mycroft. The older Holmes brother had picked up an annoying habit of 'kidnapping' John at inconvenient moments, usually when John wasn't chasing Sherlock. These meetings had been occurring for several months now, as long as John had been renting a flat with Sherlock. They were always the same; John was dropped off at a nondescript location somewhere in London where Mycroft would be waiting for him. John was quiet and awkward, Mycroft polite and cordial. Mycroft casually chatted about Sherlock mostly, about his health and a few cases he'd picked up, and John was happy to comply. He couldn't resist, could he? He already had one Holmes to deal with. Grabbing his coat, he headed for the door. Hopefully he could sneak out with Sherlock noticing. God, it was as though Sherlock was his nanny. But then Sherlock's voice called out from the kitchen, he cringed and stopped in his tracks.

"John? Where are you going?" Sherlock asked questioningly, but John could tell he already knew the answer.

"I'll be back soon Sherlock," and he closed the door behind him, heading for the stairs. He could hear Sherlock ranting, "It's my bloody brother again, isn't it? Damn him!" But he lost Sherlock's voice as he left the building, striding towards the black car. God, Sherlock would be as angry as hell when he got back. Never mind. He could deal with him later. He slid into the plush white leather seats of the limo, next to 'Anthea', or whatever the hell her name was today. He didn't even bother to ask where they were going. He'd given up any form of conversation months ago. Her eyes were constantly glued to her beloved Blackberry. Resignedly, he sank back into the comfortable leather seat. His shoulder was hurting badly today. Sherlock wasn't any help. John's thoughts turned towards Mycroft. He would never of had admitted this to himself, but he secretly enjoyed visiting Mycroft. It was a refreshing break from Sherlock's company. Not that he minded it, it was just he needed a breather when sometimes it all became too much. John could only take so much of a sociopath. Humming to himself, he looked out the black tinted window.


	2. Sparks Fly

**Hey guys, sorry this took so long to update! Patience, the plot will get better when I update the next time! I really hope you like, and I know Mycroft/John isn't a very popular pairing, but there we go! Enjoy! **

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Sherlock and make no profits from this.**

_**'But I kinda know that I won't get far  
And you stood there in front of me  
Just close enough to touch  
Close enough to hope you couldn't see  
What I was thinking of' Taylor Swift  
**_

John sat up as the inconspicuous black limo pulled up outside an ominous derelict warehouse. Typical Mycroft. 'Anthea' didn't even look up from her Blackberry. John could almost feel Mycroft's presence. A small smile spread across his face. He shouldn't be looking forward to this, but he did. Why? But then he was drawn out of his ashamed thoughts by the trilling of Anthea's voice stating, "We've arrived." The fact that she didn't even look up from her blackberry was slightly worrying. As the chauffer opened the car door (which was something John would never get used to) he saw a tiny raindrop splash against the asphalt. Great. As he reached out for his coat, the car door slammed shut and drove off into the distance. That really pissed John off. He didn't think Mycroft would be expecting a wet dog. As the rain splattered down, he dashed for the gaping warehouse entrance. He felt the freezing rain seep through his shirt. Even better. As he slid into the warehouse, he saw Mycroft sitting around a dainty little white table, sipping at a cup of tea. How patriotic. Mycroft looked up at him. "Ah, Dr. Watson. How nice of you to join me. Please, take a seat."But Mycroft wasn't looking at his face, he was outright staring at his chest, which John realised was completely visible because his shirt was plastered to his skin. Damn. He felt his face turn red, but tried to ignore it. As he approached the white table, he saw a pot of tea and a large tray of cakes. Well this was new. He felt his stomach rubble uncontrollably at the sight of the cakes. It wasn't his fault, he had spent most of the week chasing Sherlock around London, and he barely had time to eat between cases. He was starving. When he had nervously sat down on the chair, Mycroft stated disapprovingly, "John, really, you shouldn't let my brother control your diet." John sighed. The usual 50 questions. Not that minded. At least Mycroft pretended to care, whereas Sherlock didn't really care at all. John replied, "He can't help it. He doesn't eat on cases." Mycroft tutted. "Have you ever considered not chasing after my little brother?" John bridled. "I actually happened to like following your 'little brother' around." Mycroft sighed. "Each to his own. Any interesting cases recently?" John shook his head. "Nothing to report." He felt freezing. He tried to suppress his shivers. But Mycroft never missed anything. "I believe, John, that you are cold?" he began to unbutton his thick coat. John was still in shock that Mycroft had called him John. He'd never done that before. It had always been Dr. Watson. What did this mean? Had their relationship moved on? He thought hopefully. But why would he want that? Only when Mycroft stood up did he realise that Mycroft was going to give him his coat. John protested. "No, Mycroft, really, I'm fine." Mycroft gave him a withering look. "John, I insist." And John knew he couldn't refuse. So he grudgingly accepted the offer, and as he slipped it on, he was glad he had. Mycroft smiled as he sat down. "Tea?" He didn't wait for John's reply. Well this day was getting stranger and stranger. First the coat, then this, Mycroft Holmes, was pouring him a cup of tea. He gratefully accepted the boiling mug. His and Mycroft fingers briefly brushed as he passed him the mug. John felt a spark of electricity pass through him. What the hell? He felt attraction towards Mycroft? Not possible. Their eyes met. John looked down. Awkward. Mycroft stood up abruptly. "John, it's been a pleasure seeing you." That had been short. Shorter than usual. John stood up. Mycroft held out his hand. John shook it. "Until next time then." Mycroft gave him one last look, before turning round and walking off, umbrella swinging, leaving John standing alone in the empty warehouse. As he walked back to the black limo, he realised he was still wearing Mycroft's coat. Unconsciously, he snuggled into it. And he hadn't even had a cake.


	3. Brotherly Love

**Wow, I'm quick at updating today! This is a small filler so enjoy!**

John shut the door to 221b, bracing himself for Sherlock's anger. It never came. Sherlock was quietly kneeling by the kitchen table, completely absorbed in his experiment, a human foot. He didn't acknowledge John's return. "You haven't blown up the toaster again, have you?" John chuckled; he was trying to break the ice. "How was Mycroft?" Sherlock muttered. No small talk today then. Sherlock's quietness was unsettling John. He'd rather the anger to this. "Mycroft was Mycroft," he sighed, settling himself down on the couch. "You have his coat," Sherlock stated. "I forgot mine." Sherlock laughed bitterly. "Yes, always so caring, isn't he?" he sneered. "What have I done now Sherlock?" Sherlock laughed again. "Nothing John, nothing at all." John stood up abruptly, walking off to his room. If Sherlock wanted to be like this, he could take it out on the skull. He slammed the door behind him.

As John slammed his door, Sherlock banged his fist against the table, knocking over a large vial. He watched despairingly as it smashed inevitably on the tiled floor. He couldn't do anything to change John's mind. John must decide. But if Mycroft wanted war, Sherlock would give a World War 3.


	4. Take the Bullet for You

**Okay, so this is the start of the slash and jealousy! I really appreciate the reviews, they make me feel loved! Also if anyone want to take my poll, just check out the profile page! Ohhh also I need staff for my community 'Sherlock and John Together Forever' any volunteers? Hope you enjoy, please review at the end!**

**'_Cause I would take a bullet for you_  
_I would take a bullet for you_  
_I would cross any line, I'd swim across the sea_  
_I would take a bullet for you_  
_I would take a bullet for you_  
_I would lost it all, take my fall_  
_To show you it's for real' Matt Kearney_**

John sank into the white leather seat of the limo for the second time that week. This was different for Mycroft. He had never kidnapped him twice in one week. Never. He didn't ask Anthea. No point. He hoped something wasn't wrong. The thought of that made his stomach wrench. He remembered one of their past conversations as the uncertainties ate away at his mind.

_"May I ask, Mycroft, why do always chose warehouses as a meeting place?"_

_"Excellent question John. As my little brother has probably told you, I have a, let's say, very high position in the British government, so to meet in a public space would most definitely put a risk on both our securities."_

_"Ah," John mumbled. He felt like a fool, not that that was unusual when he was around the Holmes brothers. "So we're not in any danger meeting here, are we?"_

_"Well, I would be lying to say no danger, but the risk is significantly reduced, yes."_

_"Okay." John didn't like the thought of being at risk of death every time he met Mycroft, but he did it for Sherlock, so why not do it for Mycroft? He grudgingly obliged to continue meeting Mycroft._

His thoughts were jerked back to the present as the limo pulled up outside the familiar warehouse. He beat the chauffer to opening the door. At least it wasn't raining today. He saw Mycroft as soon as he entered the warehouse. But there was no table today. Mycroft looked tired, slightly ruffled from his usual immaculate appearance. John's worst thoughts confirmed. He hurried over to where Mycroft was standing. "Mycroft, is everything alright?" Mycroft smiled weakly. "Yes John. Can I ask you a favour?" John nodded. "Anything." Mycroft nodded gratefully. "I want to look after Sherlock for me. Just until this particular assassin has been disposed off." John gulped at the word assassin. Not at the person themselves, but because Mycroft and Sherlock were in danger. And John couldn't do anything. He nodded again solemnly. "Of course I will. I already do." Mycroft nodded. As John turned around, he heard a small click. If it had not been for his years of military training, he would have dismissed it. But he knew what he was. And he knew what to do. He span around, sprinting towards Mycroft. "Mycroft!" he yelled. Mycroft, completely oblivious to the danger he was in, turned around, looking surprised. John braced himself for the impact against Mycroft, and he hit him with the full force of his body, knocking him to the floor. Mycroft lay there, slightly stunned. Then was then the bullet was released. John ducked to the floor, but it was too late. He let out an involuntary scream as the bullet lodged into his left arm, already feeling the blood pumping out. He fell to his knees, trying to gauge the seriousness of his injuries. Mycroft was up in an instant, gently grabbing John on his good arm, supporting him. "Oh John, what have I done?" he whispered this cupping John's face. John was in too much pain to be surprised. Mycroft kissed John, gently, quickly, he was unsure of himself. He pulled back, looking into John's eyes. Despite the pain, John attempted to smile. He loved Mycroft. Or was his mind just confused. The pain was making his dizzy now. And Mycroft's presence. Some irrational part of him worried about Sherlock's reaction. Mycroft snapped back into action mode, pull out his phone, hopefully to call an ambulance, John thought. Unsurely, John placed his good hand on Mycroft's face. Mycroft looked up, smiling. It was like Sherlock's rare smiles. Genuine. Then John passed out.

John groggily opened his eyes. For a moment he forgot what had happened. Then he attempted to sit up, and yelped in pain, despite the obviously huge amount of painkillers injected into him. He sank back into the plump pillows, surveying his surroundings. Obviously a private hospital, judging by the room. Mycroft, he thought. Oh shit, Mycroft. More memories came rushing back. Good memories swimming in pain. As his attention moved to the other side of the room, he yelped in surprise when he saw Sherlock sitting absolutely silently in the chair beside his bed, staring intently at him. "Shit Sherlock!" Sherlock looked more than a little pissed off. "I knew you meeting Mycroft would do you no good! I will never let him kidnap you again!" John smiled weakly. "Mycroft's not to blame, Sherlock. I took the bullet for him." Sherlock huffed. "Stupid bloody idea that was too!" John laughed quietly, and for once Sherlock smiled along with him. That was when Mycroft entered the room. The atmosphere became extremely awkward. Mycroft looked almost jealous when he saw Sherlock and John laughing, but immediately covered it with a smooth, bland expression. Sherlock stopped smiling and glared hatefully at his brother. And John was caught in the middle. "Ah, if it isn't Mycroft. I believe you should be the one in here now, am I correct?" John sighed. Mycroft merely smiled and sat down into in the chair next to Sherlock, and took hold of John's empty hand. They smiled briefly at each other. Mycroft looked triumphantly at Sherlock. Sherlock looked broken, eyes lost of all hope. He stared unbelievingly at the clasped hands, like it was plagued. Then his face hardened and he glared at John accusingly. "I see how things are." Then he stalked off accusingly, slamming the door behind him. "Sherlock..." John cried. Mycroft squeezed his hand reassuringly. "He come round John. He always does." But that inspired no hope in John, who was still staring despairingly at the door, wishing the man back. Had he lost Sherlock forever?

Did you enjoy? Please review! x


	5. Drumming Noise

**Hey guys, thanks for reading! So just to avoid any confusion, due to John's injury I had to set the chapter few months after the last one so he could 'recover'. Mycroft and John are an 'item' and Sherlock is scathingly jealous. Enjoy!**

**Disclaimer: I do not own anything or one in Sherlock.**

_**'There's a drumming noise inside my head**_  
_**That starts when you're around**_  
_**I swear that you could hear it**_  
_**It makes such an all mighty sound**_

_**There's a drumming noise inside my head**_  
_**That throws me to the ground**_  
_**I swear that you should hear it**_  
_**It makes such an all mighty sound**_

_**Louder than sirens**_  
_**Louder than bells**_  
_**Sweeter than heaven**_  
_**And hotter than hell' Florence and the Machine.**_

As John pressed his panting body hard against the cold brick wall of a derelict shop, looking up at the stars, and wondering not for the last time why the hell he was running after Sherlock across London again, when it had only been 3 months since he'd been shot? Lucky sod should be grateful, he thought almost bitterly. John could count the number of words Sherlock had said to him on two hands since that fateful day at the hospital. And he was breaking his two promises to Mycroft, one, to stop running after Sherlock and two, rest and recover. He felt his stomach knot in guilt. Mycroft had been nothing but good to him since the bullet, never pushing their new found relationship, never pushing him. Due to John's injury they hadn't gone on any dates yet, just the occasional kiss and hug. But to celebrate his rehabilitation Mycroft had texted him this morning arranging a date for tomorrow. John grinned. But it was wiped off immediately when he thought of Sherlock. It broke John's heart to see his friend like this. And he couldn't do anything to fix. But as he heard heavy, quick falling footsteps coming down the alley he was hiding, he pushed his thoughts aside. As he sprinted, he frantically patted his jeans pocket for his gun. Damn it to hell. He'd left it back at the flat. Oh crap. He felt his feet slipping on the slime as his pursuer stopped and pulled out a nasty looking gun, taking aim, and then fired. But as the bullet flew, John's feet slid on the slime, and he fell flat on his face. Ow. The bullet flew over him, in the place where his head had been only a few seconds ago. It embed itself in the wall. John lay on the floor, still unconscious from the blow to his head.

As Sherlock sprinted to the alley, he heard a gun being fired. Oh no. John. He sped up, legs spinning, blurring. He braced himself for the impact against their attacker, but it never came. As struggled to balance himself, he saw the attacker running off, glimpsing behind him, chuckling. Sherlock, eyes red with hate, began to chase after him, but then he remembered John. John. Gasping, he ran down the alley and fell on his knees next to John's unconscious body. Oh God. John was dead. Tenderly placing John's head on his lap, he began to stroke the short, blonde hair.

"My John." He whispered, tears pooling in his eyes. He would never get to tell him how sorry he was for being such a jealous idiot, how he had never meant of the harsh looks, or how much he loved him. Gently lifting John's head, he kissed him.

As John regained conscious, he felt a wave of intense pleasure hit him. What the hell. Something warm on his lips. Someone else lips. Sherlock's. But what about Mycroft..? He felt so bad, so guilty. But it had all become crystal clear to him, like these last months had been a haze. He had loved Sherlock since the day he had met him. But he hadn't had the guts to admit it. So he'd gone with Mycroft, the easy option, so like his brother, and when he had openly displayed his feelings for John, John had taken it, something to ease the pain of not having Sherlock, his conscious twisted guiltily inside him. Guilt pushed aside for a moment, he found himself melting into the kiss, responding.

Either Sherlock was dreaming, or John was alive. And he never dreamt. Stupid, stupid. A simpleton would have known John wasn't dead. Put his pure love for John had blinded him. Then, guiltily, he remembered that he was kissing his brother's boyfriend. And even Sherlock knew that that was wrong. But as he began to pull back, he felt John responding to the kiss. But what about Mycroft..? Did John truly love him? As John moaned, Sherlock forgot about the damn questions and just gave in. He'd better get them back to the flat. He could deal with Mycroft in the morning.


	6. Guilty Conscious

**Hey guys, sorry I took so long to update I've been very busy recently! I really enjoyed writing this chapter and I can't wait for the next one! If anyone can spot the Jacqueline Wilson reference, heart out to you! (It's rather obscure, and even though I don't like her work, I just had to include it!) Enjoy and please review at the end! I love you all!**

* * *

John awoke the next morning to completely unfamiliar surroundings. Different ceiling, different bed, different room. Where the hell was he? He winced as he gently touched the large bruise on his head. How the hell had he got that? He rolled over. Oh god. Another bloody unfamiliar person. Sherlock. What the hell was he doing in bed with Sherlock? Oh. Oh. Oh. Shit. Last night came flooding back to him in a flash. Everything became clear. Oh god. He straightened up immediately. Sherlock groaned, muttered something inaudible and rolled over again, still sleeping peacefully. As gently as he could, John climbed out of bed, grabbed the nearest dressing gown and padded downstairs. Only once the kettle was rattling away did he begin to consider things over. One thing was clear. He was irrevocably in love with Sherlock. That fact could definitely not be ignored. But what should he say to Mycroft? It would be heart breaking for all of them, even more so because Sherlock was his brother. John's gut twisted inside him, his conscious weighed down under the strain of his enormous guilt. Sherlock or Mycroft? The answer was blindingly clear even before the question had entered his mind. Sherlock. If Sherlock had not kissed him last night, he probably would have allowed things to continue in this awkward arrangement that they had had over the past few months. Perhaps even if Sherlock had kissed him he could have ignored that, but not after what had happened last night. John allowed himself to smile briefly. But he could not make a move without breaking one heart, and that is what killed him most. As the kettle clicked, John's thoughts snapped into place. He would break it to Mycroft gently, perhaps not revealing his new found relationship with Sherlock, make the inevitable break up as clean as possible. A clean break. He suddenly flashed back to one time in his life when he had broken his arm as a boy, and the doctor had said, "Good, it's a clean break. This means it will heal as quickly and as painlessly as possible." He smiled now at the bittersweet memory. He jumped slightly when Sherlock's familiar arms wrapped around his waist from behind, and he tilted his head around to see Sherlock's gorgeous smiling face, eyes glinting and his hair a glorious bed head like a halo. He pulled him in for a kiss.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes settled into the luxurious leather seat of his office. He switched on his black, sleek laptop. John should be up by now, he thought, smiling to himself. His beautiful John, who had taken a bullet for him all those months ago. They had a date tonight, if he remembered correctly. He hadn't pushed him over the past months, taking it gently, just the occasional kiss here and there. But tonight he hoped they could move onto something more, substantial. He could John a surprise this morning. Of course he had bugs and cameras installed into the every room in the flat that John and Sherlock shared. They didn't know this of course, Sherlock had always so respected his personal privacy. A program came up. Mycroft began sifting through all the CCTV footage. Ah yes, John will be up by now, probably in the kitchen. He should probably go onto live streaming. He always loved John most in the morning. So unguarded and innocent. Clicking on an icon, he smiled as he saw John's familiar face staring blankly at that kettle. But that smile steadily dropped and he found himself banging his fist against the table in frustration. He closed the screen in disgust. The click was the sound of finality.


	7. Heart Vacancy

John felt truly happy, for the first time since he could remember. Who would have suspected he had found it in Sherlock's strong, lean arms? A small, submissive voice nagged in the back of his mind that he had no right to feel this way, what about Mycroft? He was after all, still his boyfriend. But John, rather uncharacteristically, had drowned out the weak, persistent voice with his now constant thoughts of Sherlock, damn the bloody consequences. But even he knew that he would have to deal with Mycroft, and soon. What he was doing now with Sherlock, was, although it pained him to admit it, cheating. That was Harry's area of expertise, not his.

John, after the kettle had finished boiling, had dragged Sherlock over to the sofa with two steaming hot mugs of coffee, sat the man down, unceremoniously placed one mug in his surprised hands, and proceeded to curl up beside him. He sipped the coffee, letting the liquid seep through his weary bones. He looked at Sherlock, who was staring into the murky depths of his coffee, absentmindedly taking hold of John's hand. John liked that.

"Mycroft." That single word which Sherlock muttered made him wince. He knew they would have to discuss him sometime. He watched his newly spun happiness shatter like fine glass.

"This is so wrong Sherlock. We're going to hurt him so bad. I mean, you're his brother, and I'm – however much you don't like it- technically still his boyfriend."

"It's your choice John. If you went back to him, I couldn't do anything, however much I wouldn't like it, and he would be none the wiser."

"Sherlock, you know I'm going to choose you. We're going to have to tell him."

"Who said anything about 'we' telling him?" Sherlock grinned cheekily.

He wouldn't dare, John thought. "You are not leaving me on my own to tell your brother I'm in love with you. No bloody way. He's Mycroft bloody Holmes, for Pete's sake. He'll kill me. Or worse." But despite the gloom clouding his heart, he couldn't help but be infected by Sherlock's grin. Sherlock pulled him in for a chaste kiss. He leant in. Sherlock nestled closer.

His heart almost stopped when he heard an all too familiar chuckle from the corner of the room, by the door. He and Sherlock jumped guiltily apart and turned to face this new intruder. John's world froze as he saw Mycroft standing elegantly in the doorway, umbrella in hand, gleefully swinging a pair of keys in his hand. His smile, though appearing innocent, was ruined by his eyes, which glared maliciously.

"Ah, John, Sherlock, forgive me, did I, interrupt something?"

Sherlock was glaring evilly at his older brother, and the phrase, if looks could kill, jumped to the front of his mind.

"Mycroft, this isn't what you think..." John was silenced by a particularly fire freezing glare form Mycroft.

"Ah, my Dear John," he spat harshly. "Remember our date tonight? I'm rather looking forward to it."

John swallowed guiltily. "Mycroft, you know I can't go on a date with you. Not anymore."

"Oh John, why ever not?"

Beside him, John heard Sherlock growled. "Mycroft, get the fuck out!"

"Manners, Sherlock, remember your manners." Mycroft sighed dramatically.

"I can't go because I love Sherlock!" John cried in frustration.

Although notions like this had clearly darted through Mycroft's incredibly fast brain, hearing the words from John's own lips had reeled him slightly.

"I take it then, I am what the term those mundane beings use, 'dumped'?"

John got up. God forbid, he didn't want to hurt the man, and he had no experience whatsoever in ending relationships, but he was going to give it his best shot. This was going to awkward with Sherlock here, glowering at his back.

"Mycroft." he decided against taking his hands. "I've really enjoyed the past few months I've spent with you." Even though he'd been forced to stay at home most of the time. "And I will never regret taking that bullet for you that day." He saw Mycroft visibly gulp. He didn't think he could hold together if this formidable man started to cry. He carried on, palms sweating. "But I've realised now that it has always been Sherlock. I love this man. I had no intention of hurting you; I was going to tell you sooner, I promise. I'm sorry."

When Mycroft spoke next, some of the bitterness had left his voice, his shoulders had sank, he looked resigned. "Apology accepted John. I hope that we can remain at least acquaintances. Good day to you both." As the door clicked behind him, John sighed with relief, and sank back next to Sherlock. Sherlock looked rather surprised.

"You would have thought he would have made more fuss over this. It would only have been natural, seeing as you two had been dating for a few months. Surprised he didn't want to duel me for it. Isn't that what they usual do?"

"Let's just be grateful for small mercies," John leant into Sherlock. He felt like a huge weight had been taken off his shoulders, he hadn't felt it go until Mycroft had left. The nagging voice had stopped, his mind felt clearer. He let himself have a small smile.

* * *

As Mycroft walked down the steep stairs, it was all he could do not to cry. Stupid fool, he scolded himself. This is exactly why you never let anyone in. They always, always hurt you. Mycroft considered this to be one life's most important lessons. He felt the tears evaporate. Never let the emotions go, he repeated to himself, because these are the consequences. He knew thereon in that he would never cry again. His face hardened again into the cordial, but impenetrable mask he usually wore. He knew he should feel anger towards John for the pain he had caused him, but that had melted away as soon as John's eyes pleaded with his. He knew he hated Sherlock, but there was no love lost there. And as he closed the door to 221b, all the happy memories and thoughts he had ever had there were left behind, trapped forever. But he knew that there would always be an empty, burnt room in his heart labelled _John Watson._


End file.
